Ghosts
by AnniePants
Summary: My name was Dana Scully. Six days ago, I died... MSR. No CD.
1. Chapter 1

Do you know what it feels like to be the only person left in the world? I used to think I did. A few moments in life both cherished and dreaded come to mind. Sometimes momentary isolation is exhilarating, peaceful, and other times the silence squeezes the air right out of your lungs. I remember my teenage self sneaking outside after midnight. The dewy, freshly-cut grass behind the house pillowed my body like I was floating into the smog-cradled stars overhead. Lightly puffing on my mother's Virginia Slims, I grimaced at the taste and the smoke that scratched my throat; yet at the same time, I felt more alive than I ever had. And no one understood it. No one shared it. For that one hour, I was the only person in the world. I remember my first night in Georgetown in an empty apartment surrounded by a city full of strangers. Wrapping the quilt Gram made around my shoulders, I curled up on the only piece of furniture in the room: the window bench. Raindrops splattered against the icy pane as I pressed my forehead against the glass, trying to listen to the whispers of the city as if I were outside looking in. I'd never felt so alone. I remember sitting on my knees beside the grave, touching his name with my fingertips and still not believing it was real. My chest ached as though powerful hands were crushing the bones; and I marveled at the possibility of life without breath as I cried tears that wouldn't come out. But I felt our baby inside me then and I knew I wasn't alone; not really. Today is different, because now I understand what it is to be alone, stepping into another world and becoming an outsider to everything I knew before. In a way it's emptiness, a void I didn't quite expect, but at the same time, it's liberating. I can breathe. My name was Dana Scully. Six days ago, I died.

---

Fuckin Song Sung Blue. The words scrawl across the mirror in blood red. My face peers out from behind looking pale and far away. I brush the smudged letters with the back of my hand, wondering who those words belong to and why that person shared them with me. In a whisper, they flow from my lips, and I think maybe I understand. The mirror and light bulb above begin to shake. Another train is coming in. The woman that gazes back intently watching me is a stranger; I can barely recognize her as myself. Eyes never change; they're the same pale blue with a hint of grey they've been since the day I was born. But now fine lines appear near the lids, and puffy dark circles give evidence of my weariness. I remember a time when I took great care of my physical appearance, every day applying a face-full of make-up and dyeing my hair to get that perfect shade of auburn sunset. My fingers run over my head in the absence of a brush, and once again, I'm surprised at how different my hair feels to the touch. It's cropped shorter than I've ever worn it, and now I'm a blonde, causing the sprinkling of freckles to stand out a bit more deeply on my cheek bones. Rummaging through the few personal belongings in my purse, my fingers clasp a tube of gloss. I rub my lips together after I apply the sheer rose color, feeling like myself again. When I drop it in the bag, I delicately remove my dearest possession with my thumb and pointer finger. For a brief moment, I gaze at the image and remember another life. A baby with chubby cheeks, hazel eyes, and a dusting of auburn hair giggles for the camera. Lightly I press a kiss against my fingers and touch the child's face before folding the picture and placing it in the pocket of my jeans.

---

Hurriedly I weave through the crowd of impatient travelers, dodging businessmen in designer suits as I make my way to the platform. He's sitting on the bench waiting for me, his chin resting on clasped hands. Lines of worry crease his brow as he loses himself in contemplation, and the stubble of a growing beard shadows his cheeks. He looks as tired as I feel. Every day we're in a different place, and I don't think we've slept in over twenty-four hours. As I approach he looks up, his face instantly softening. Our new world is just the two of us; it's all we need to survive. And somehow, despite everything against us, I know that we'll be okay, my partner and me. Gently I lower myself beside him and clasp his hand in mine; he squeezes back. His rich hazel eyes meet my gaze in a give and take of reassurance and comfort.

"It's done," he says, "Skinner called."

The enormity of that small statement hits me, tears blurring my vision. I didn't expect to be so emotional over it. In a sense, our lives are saved now; I should feel grateful—we're free. Our former boss with the Deputy Director has managed to plant false information into the federal database, stating that our remains were discovered five days ago burned beyond recognition amongst the Anasazi ruins. Dana Scully and Fox Mulder are dead. With them passed their social security numbers, bank accounts, properties and possessions, a master's degree in psychology from Oxford, an MD in forensic medicine, and nearly fifteen years of service to the Bureau. I can't help but think of my mother hearing the news, planning another funeral, weeping over my grave. Charlie will offer comfort by reassuring her I am at peace—that I am with God. He said the same thing after Daddy and again after Melissa, even though Melissa wouldn't have wanted anybody talking about her being with God… Bill will say he knew it would happen, that my love for Mulder would eventually kill me.

"Shhh, it's okay, Scully. It's okay. We'll figure something out. Everything will be all right, I promise you." he murmurs as I bury my face in his neck. I feel his arm come around me tenderly while he holds my hand. For a long moment that seems to stretch into forever, we hold one another silently, oblivious to the commotion around us. Eventually I lift my head and swipe my sleeve across my cheeks to dry the tears. We needed this. We needed to mourn before we could go on. I almost smile; mourning my own death—that's kind of funny.

"So who are we now?" I ask him.

"Skinner said he can help us with new identities to an extent. He can probably get us social security numbers, but not a college degree…When he asked for a name, I told him Hale. William Hale."

I have to fight against the lump that returns to constrict my throat. Hale—that's easy—he's used George Hale before, but I know why he chose William. It won't be easy for me to call him that name.

"What about you, Scully?" he asks softly. "When he calls back, what should I tell him?"

Without hesitating, it flows off my tongue easily. I don't know where it comes from. It just is. It's me. "Lauren Hale," I say. "Tell him my name is Lauren Hale."

"I love you, Lauren," he murmurs, testing my new name on his lips. Then he smirks, revealing a glimmer of my former coworker as he says, "It's a little feminine for you, Scully. I'll have to get used to it."

I roll my eyes, feigning annoyance, because that's what I've always done. That's our game. My lips brush across his and he responds, holding me tighter as his the tip of his tongue lightly slips into my mouth. As we kiss, the passers-by don't see us. It's like we're not even there, as though we're part of another world. Ghosts.

---

I hate New York. After a week or so the glitz of Manhattan starts to wear off and you're left on a piss-reeking concrete island with far too many people. Skinner said his brother, Richard the architect, is renovating an old brownstone in the city and that he's out of the country this month. It's a place to stay for a good two or three weeks, so without any better prospects, Mulder and I decided to come to New York. We arrive at the subway station during evening rush, barely able to squeeze on a train. The car is so tightly packed I can hardly breathe; and additionally, summer heat sinks into the caverns below the city with a stifling heaviness. I can't reach anything to grab hold of to steady myself as the train lurches forward, so I wrap my arms around Mulder's torso and rest my head against his chest while he grips the bar above. He counts the stops on the rectangular map above the sliding door.

"Almost there," he says.

---

We sit cross-legged on the hardwood floor enjoying a feast of Chinese take-out by candlelight that probably doesn't fit into our practical budget, but we don't care. The little Brooklyn townhouse is definitely a work-in-progress; we'll have to remain on the street level since the stairs are missing. Patches of the floor are uneven, and here and there, a few gaping holes reveal the ground floor below. An old, worn mattress lounges in front of the main fireplace, offering a welcomed place to sleep. A light rain patters against the large front windows accompanied by distant cracks of thunder rolling in from the east over the Atlantic. What we're doing is, of course, illegal—trespassing—but I don't tell Mulder that I'm scared. Tonight we have a roof over our heads, and for now, that's enough. After dinner, however, discussing practicalities becomes a necessity; so we first empty the contents of our wallets on the floor to see what we're worth. Before we boarded the plane to Philly, we removed just enough money from the ATM for travel expenses. Now sifting through piles of twenties, we discover our total is just short of one thousand dollars. For some time we sit in silence staring down at all that's left of our lives' work. Skinner and the other allies would probably help us get started if we asked, but we won't.

"What will we do, Mulder?"

"We'll get jobs, that's all. We'll work," he replies, chewing a hangnail on his thumb, his eyes still on the floor.

"How? William and Lauren Hale have no experience, no training in any field. They haven't even been to college."

"Someone will hire us. We may not find the most glamorous of jobs, but we'll get by, Scully."

"Not in New York," I tell him, "New York is too expensive. We have to go someplace else."

"There's still three weeks left to make a decision. I don't want to think about it right now," he says, his expression blank as he folds his arms in his lap.

"Mulder, we need to think about it now. Our means will run out soon, and we have to budget for travel. We'll need food, clothes…"

"I know," he says, "I know."

On that first night in the motel room, the day we died, thinking of the future proved easier. We were alive together and promised one another we'd never give up hope; but that was before we had time to ponder all the glitches and technicalities. Fighting alien replacements infiltrating the government could no longer be a primary goal; that particular agenda would have to be bequeathed to the hands of others. Mulder and I survived death, but now we have to live through the next life.

He reaches across the pile of take-out cartons and dollar bills to brush a strand of blonde hair out of my eyes and cup my cheek in his palm.

"Just give me now, Scully. Just tonight. It's all I'm asking for."

My eyes meet his, and I know what I want, what I need—just him. After I blow out the candles, we walk hand-in-hand to the mattress. He kneels before me as I lay back, watching him. Butterflies dance in my belly and liquid heat melts through my pelvis when I feel his weight sink over me. Our mouths meet, and it becomes more feral, driven by a need for comfort, for confluence, for a taste of home. I reach for his warmth when he moves away, but I don't object when his purpose becomes clear. My hands stroke through his thick, dark hair as he lifts my hips off the mattress, removing my jeans and cotton panties. Tomorrow we'll worry, but tonight is for us.

---

Pounding rain on glass awakens me. During those fleeting, grey seconds between dreams and reality, I honestly believe that I'm still in Washington, expected soon at Quantico for my eleven a.m. class. First I open one eye tentatively then reluctantly blink the other. Above me looms a high window, water streaming down outside to curtain a dismal grey sky, providing a reminder of where I am. For some reason, words come to my lips that I haven't read since school days. _To die; to sleep. To sleep perchance to dream_. I shiver as the cool air brushes against the dried sweat coating my skin. Searching for warmth, I roll into Mulder, pressing my nude body against his as I wrap a leg over his hip. My touch stirs him. "Scully," he whispers before I cut him off with a kiss. Neither of us desiring to move again, we lay there for minutes, or perhaps, hours. Time doesn't matter any more. We have nowhere to be.

"What do you think will happen?" I finally ask, preparing myself to face the world again. These questions are for Mulder, because I admittedly have no answers. He's the one with the imagination.

"I think…I think we'll find another city. And we'll work there until we have just enough money to go overseas. We'll explore Eastern Europe and Asia. Can't you see us walking the streets of Bombay, crossing the Great Wall, witnessing the beauty of the Himalayas? You can be a doctor again, Scully, because no one will care about credentials. We'll find people that need help and give hope to those who have none. We can do it, can't we Scully?"

"Yes, Mulder," I reply softly, "We can." And for a fleeting moment, even I believe it.

_**A/N: I am going to finish 'Poison'. After a computer crash, I lost all notes, drafts, and research, so it'll take me awhile to get back on track, but it will be done. I've missed Scully, which drove me to write this one. It's actually already finished—I just have to edit and release the chapters. : )**_


	2. Chapter 2

Five minutes. If I don't leave in five minutes, I'll be late for my shift. Someone else will get my tables if I'm late, and that can't happen. I need the money. A belligerent client spent forty-five minutes screaming at me over his contract, because he insisted on the "no documentation" mortgage agreement that the company no longer offers. The assistant receptionist position has proven more difficult than I thought it would be. Thank God the office closes at five, so I could just tell him "sorry, we're closing, you'll have to call Monday" and scurry away to the teeny closet of a restroom to switch uniforms. As soon as the door locks behind me, I kick off the borrowed pumps, shimmy out of my plain green skirt from goodwill, and dig through my duffle bag for the wrinkled black pants and starched-stiff button-up shirt. After a quick backward glance in the mirror on the way out, a flash of very different days comes to mind. I remember a baby-faced young woman with shoulder-length red hair dressed awkwardly in a business suit on her first day of work as an FBI agent. She studied her reflection in the mirror that morning nervously, wondering if she looked immature or professional. If only I knew how that one day would change everything.

---

Boston traffic is horrendous—you think I'd learn after seven months that it's impossible to transverse the entire city on a bus during rush hour in only thirty minutes. I'm late, meaning I'll have to work until closing, which is 1 a.m. on Saturdays. Work began in the mortgage office before eight this morning; so it's going to be quite a long day. The manager hurls me a peeved glare when I finally clock in and I pray I'm not fired. Landing a waitress job at the classy Silvertone downtown is no easy feat; I had to embellish my résumé significantly to win the honor. Surveying the throng of the city's elite waiting impatiently to be seated tires me; I've come to know these types well. They'll smile sweetly as I scribble their orders of champagne and duck with wine sauce on my notepad, but as soon as I move toward the kitchen they'll whisper, "Poor woman; to have that job at her age." Sometimes I just want to shake them and say, "Don't you know the world's coming to an end?" I wish they knew who I really am, or was.

"Lauren, you're late!" Ben, one of the waiters, snaps. I'm embarrassed to realize I've been standing near the entryway zoning out for at least a couple of minutes. Damn, I'd give my soul for a dinner break. "I already started a table for you. Booth in the far corner," he sighs in exasperation.

"Sorry," I mumble, tying the apron as I walk. Fortunately my first party of the evening is a pleasant elderly couple who don't seem demanding or condescending. Maybe it's a good sign for the remainder of the night that karma finally plans to take pity on me. While I take drink orders and attempt to recite the specials, I notice that the older man seems quite pale but refrain from asking him if he's all right. When I return, however, it's clear that he is not.

"Are you feeling okay, sir?" I ask hesitantly, "Can I bring something for you?"

He only shakes his head, but his wife responds, "He'll be just fine. He gets bad heartburn sometimes, but it'll pass in a minute or so. Always does."

Suddenly the man grips his left shoulder, sucking in his breath.

"Sir, can you breathe? Do you feel pressure in your chest? Light-headedness?"

He nods shakily before his face contorts in pain.

"Call an ambulance!" I yell to someone fiddling with a cell phone at the table behind us.

Gripping the man by the underarms, I gingerly ease him to the floor until he's lying flat and check his pulse. Already his wife is hysterical.

"Ma'am, I need you to calm down. Panicking won't help him. What's your name?" I ask as I open her husband's shirt.

"Esther," she manages through her tears, "My husband's name is Jim. Please…please help him. I can't live without him."

I don't respond, because I don't know how.

"Just relax, Jim. You're going to be fine. Take deep breaths for me," I tell him, marveling at how quickly the instinct comes back to me. Seconds later, he's gone. No pulse. I feel the eyes of a large crowd gathering behind me as I find the notch of his breastbone with my fingers and begin the compressions.

---

The autumn air gives me a chill when I step off the night bus. A little white cloud puffs in front of my lips, and I fold my arms close to my body to keep warm. I'll have to ask Mulder if we can afford to buy jackets soon.

I feel strange tonight—almost hollow, if that makes any sense. For a long time, I haven't thought about missing medicine, but I do. I really do. Tonight I might've saved someone's life. He was alive when the paramedics arrived, anyway. Afterward, my coworkers peered at me strangely as if they had no idea what to make of me. It's dangerous, what I did. Mulder and I are always extremely careful about drawing attention to ourselves. He'll probably worry when I tell him, but I'll just have to explain that I didn't have another choice and leave it at that.

When I cross the street, there he stands on the corner, waiting for me just like always, bouncing and rubbing his arms in the billowing wind. He walks down the street from the bus stop with me every night; and if for some reason he's later than me, I meet him at the station and we take the bus together. Southie isn't the safest neighborhood to say the least, but luckily we don't live in the projects (although our apartment isn't much better). He smiles warmly when he sees me, opening his arms for an embrace to help combat the cold. Since he finished the workday he's had time to change into clean sweats, but he still smells like paint thinner. It hurts me to think that Fox Mulder paints houses for a living.

"I missed you," he says as I step into his arms. Every day he tells me that, but it doesn't make it any less sincere. I live for this; coming home to him every night. Honestly it's all worth it. I would rather share this life with him than go back to my former world alone. We help each other get through the hard days—the days when we can only afford one bag of popcorn to serve as three meals, the days when we really miss home.

"Did you have a good day?" I ask as we walk arm-in-arm.

"I guess so," he replies, "Pretty much the same as every day, whether that's good or bad. No, wait…I learned the difference between 'enchant' and 'grapemist' today. Last year, I would've called both purple. So that's something."

"I'm glad," I chuckle.

"What about you? How was work?" he asks.

"Long," I tell him, "I want to forget it."

"Done," he replies with a gleam in his eyes.

---

The one bedroom/one bath apartment we share is as homey as we could make it with sparse garage sale furniture, but it looks beautiful to me. Each time I walk through the door, I feel both relieved and comforted to be home. As we trudge up four flights of stairs, my stomach rumbles in anticipation of what sort of treat Mulder has for me. Every day it's something new: a Hershey bar or a warm muffin or a chocolate chip cookie. We've set aside some spare change in a tin can on the table for splurge money, and Mulder spends far too much of it on me.

The savory aroma envelopes us the second we step inside, and my heart nearly melts when I see the stove. Grilled cheese! Mulder made me grilled cheese. I cut the sandwich in two and make him eat half. Wrapped in a blanket on the living room floor, we listen to the radio while devouring our gooey feast. With a contented sigh, feeling warm all over at last, I curl into the crook of Mulder's arm while Neil Young serenades us with "Don't Let it Bring You Down." Soon my eyelids start to droop, but Mulder taps my nose to keep me awake.

"Hey Lauren," he says.

Hearing him address me by that name still throws me off a bit, but we made a pact to use our new names all the time, even when we're alone. That way we're less likely to slip up in public.

"Yeah?" I yawn.

"How 'bout a night out next Friday? We both get off early enough."

"We can't afford it," I reply with my broken record response. I don't have to hear the question anymore, really.

"Wrong. When will you ever learn to accept extreme possibilities?"

I know him so well I can hear the goofy look on his face.

"Huh?"

"I got a bonus check today for my six month anniversary with the company, and I'm taking you out to dinner to celebrate."

"That's wonderful! But we need furniture, Will. And winter coats. Let's save it."

"It's two hundred dollars! We can save some of it, but I want to treat my wife to a nice evening. What's wrong with that?"

"Okay," I smile. He won't have it any other way, so I don't push it. Little has changed in regards to our relationship; we still have the ying and yang that worked so well over the years: the swing between fanciful and practical, creating a balance. Ever since Mulder turned out to be right about aliens, I decided to start giving him the upper hand more often. What else can I say? Our life revolves around simple pleasures, and already I can't wait until next weekend.


	3. Chapter 3

No sex tonight. I made the decision firmly before switching the lamp off and crawling into the sheets. I'm exhausted, and I direly need sleep. We both do; even though tomorrow's Sunday, we're working early afternoon shifts to make sure we'll have enough money for heating bills when the full force of winter rolls in. However when he spoons against me, draping an arm over my belly, I start to question my mandate. I feel him hardening against my backside and I seriously start to question it. And then—oh what the hell. Get me in bed with a naked Mulder, and I'll pretty much always change my mind. All cares and worries are lost as we find release in one another. We're good at forgetting—it's a survival skill.

---

A groan escapes my lips as the morning sunlight sears my eyelids. Vaguely I'm aware of a pounding in my temples, and I pray I don't have a migraine, as it would surely knock me out for a whole day. I sit up slowly, testing my balance and vision, but I'm only semi-relieved when I discover that it doesn't feel like a typical migraine. Glancing over, I see that Mulder's up already, and the distinct scent of burned toast permeates into the bedroom. His voice floats softly from the kitchen; he must be on the phone. Carefully and slowly, I swing my legs around to the side of the bed, my feet brushing the carpet. As soon as I'm completely upright, a wave of intense dizziness hits me, causing me to bury my face in my hands. The smell of toast transforms into something vile, and I know that if I ponder food, I'll throw up, so I focus on keeping my mind a clean slate. With great caution, I walk into the bathroom and grip the sides of the sink, staring into the mirror; then gasp in horror at what I see. My face is completely white except for a tiny red smear that colors my upper lip. It doesn't mean the worst, I tell myself. I've been prone to nosebleeds in the past, and dizziness is a common cause. "It's okay," I whisper as I wipe away the evidence with a tissue. After taking a moment to sit on the edge of the tub, the shakiness begins to fade away until I feel fine.

A sharp knock on the door causes me to jump nearly a foot.

"Lauren, are you almost finished in there? I need to talk to you," Mulder calls from the other side of the door.

Furrowing my brow at the unexpected edge in his voice, I respond, "Just a sec."

I slip on an oversized tee-shirt before entering the living room. He's sitting at the table wearing his intense, contemplative look.

"What's wrong?" I ask, taking a seat beside him.

"Your manager at the restaurant called. He wants to hear back from you as soon as possible."

I stiffen in response, afraid that I've been 'let go' for my recurring tardiness.

"Did he say what he wanted?" I ask carefully.

"Yes…He said you saved a man's life last night when he nearly died of a heart attack. The staff wants to recognize you as a hero, and apparently, the man's wife wants to get our number so she can thank you properly." His words are clipped.

"William…"

"Why didn't you tell me about this?" he asks, his voice calm and even, but strained. That tone isn't a good sign. When we used to work together, I became skilled at recognizing his subtleties and discovering other things to do, far away from him, when he slipped into that voice.

"Because I didn't see the need."

"How could you do something like that? What were you thinking? The news will spread, and they'll find us!"

"They won't."

"It doesn't matter. That's not a risk we can take."

"Tell me what I should have done! Stood back like everyone else and let that man die?"

"Someone else could've helped him. It didn't have to be you."

"I was there! I saw it! With a heart attack, every second is precious."

"I don't care. You shouldn't have done it."

"My father died, because no one knew how to help him when he became symptomatic. I wasn't about to let that happen to this man, to his family," I raise my voice shrilly, more so than I intend.

Mulder sighs, running his hand through his hair as he pauses to think. When he continues, his voice is softer. "Of course you're right," he says after a short silence, "You did a good deed; it's just that things are different now. Everything is a danger. Just…try to play it off and we'll wait and see. I wouldn't meet with that woman."

"I know. I won't."

"How are you going to explain your medical knowledge when people ask?"

Without warning, the crest of dizziness returns in a rush, and I reel back toward the bathroom. I don't want to bleed or vomit in front of him. But of course he's on my heels, desperately asking what's wrong. He thinks I'm pissed off, and now he feels guilty. Bringing my father into the issue probably did it.

"I'm fine," I say, "I'm just going to take a shower, okay? I'll be out in a minute."

Reluctantly I close the door behind me after he turns away, looking dejected.

---

We don't have insurance; I can't afford illness. This hellish week refuses to stop. I'm just so tired all the time; dragging my body out of bed every day is a painful struggle. Mulder has noticed my sluggishness, but I won't mention anything else. Excuses for exhaustion are starting to run short, though. If I tell him how horrible I actually feel, he'll insist on me going to a doctor who will prescribe all kinds of pills that will cost a fortune. Part of me just doesn't want to know. Whatever is wrong, I try not to think about it. An absurd tactic, I know. What if something happens to me? Thinking about it breaks my heart, not for me, but rather because I don't think Mulder could survive it. Just like I know couldn't, if our positions were reversed.

Finally the miserable five days come to an end upon my departure from the mortgage office Friday afternoon. The cold front has passed over at last, leaving the air pleasantly warm. Stepping outside the dingy office into the crisp fall sunshine, I breathe in deeply, a sense of refreshment and relaxation washing over me. Perhaps only stress and bleak weather have been weighing me down, leading me to blow physical discomfort out of proportion. For the first time since Mulder and I moved here, I notice the beauty of Boston on my walk home; the wrought-iron enclosed parks filled to the brim with ancient oaks and maples, landscapes dotted with gold and crimson, and serene gothic American architecture—some of the oldest buildings in the country.

I arrive home before Mulder, allowing ample time to dress for tonight. I want to look pretty. I haven't felt pretty in such a long time. Following a shower, I slip into a simple second-hand black evening dress. Cheap by my old standards, but now the nicest piece of clothing I own. The short blonde locks dry in soft curls around my cheeks, and I apply my make-up like I once did. I don't own any jewelry, but it doesn't matter; the simple gold band on my left hand is as extravagant as I need. As I'm finishing preparations, I hear Mulder enter the bedroom and collapse in a heap.

"Get off the bed!" I call out playfully, "You're a mess!"

"Then I'm coming in to shower. Wanna help clean up?" He asks mischievously, tapping his fingers on the door.

"Nope, I'm already dressed," I answer as he enters the tiny room.

His eyes catch my reflection in the mirror and he pauses for a quiet moment, just watching me. My heart beats faster; it's amazing how being the focus of William Hale's attention still gives me butterflies. Smiling, I turn around to kiss him, standing on my tiptoes. When our lips part, he murmurs, "How did I get so lucky?"


	4. Chapter 4

"Don't order the cheapest thing, Lauren. We can afford to treat ourselves tonight," he reminds me as I scan the menu with one eyebrow raised, noticing that everything costs over ten dollars.

At one time in my life I would have called this hole-in-the-wall Italian Ristorante inexpensive, casual, nothing fancy. But now it seems over-indulgently expensive. Even with Mulder's bonus, the evening is bound to put a dent in our income. Despite my insistence otherwise, he orders an entire bottle of Merlot. I can't even remember the last time I drank wine; and soon my head lifts into a warm buzz. We consume our fettuccini dinners with a hunger that we'd forgotten we had after endless days of Raman noodles and Easy Mac. Long after our appetites sate, we remain in our little candlelit booth enjoying the third and fourth glasses of wine while indulging in the sort of conversation we used to share a lifetime ago. For once we don't talk about work or money or bills, but instead discuss politics and music and childhood memories. I'm reminded of those first few evenings out together that extended beyond the confines of work and friendship; when our lives began to change upon the realization that what we had was special enough to risk everything for.

Still quite tipsy, we stumble out after ten o'clock to wander the downtown streets. Holding hands, we slow our pace to admire the lights on the waterfront. As we meander near the docks through the thin crowd of friends and lovers, we become just another anonymous couple celebrating the intimacy of one another's company. It feels so natural and effortless; as though the excursion were a daily event.

"Why didn't we do this before?" I ask during a lull in conversation.

"Because we didn't know what we had," he replies softly.

Neither of us wants tomorrow to arrive, dragging reality behind it like a monster to devour the fantasy; but the hour grows late, and for now our time must end. When we surrender to move on in the direction of the bus station, my head oddly starts feeling fuzzier, and the colors in my line of vision begin to blur like watercolor running down canvas. The sensation initially seems pleasant enough but soon becomes disorienting. Mulder braces my arm when my balance falters.

"Lauren, are you all right?" he asks with concern, sounding far away, under water.

"Fine…" I hear my voice reply groggily, "Too much wine."

But I know the problem has nothing to do with the wine; it's something entirely different, and yet vaguely familiar. Briefly everything switches to black, rendering me unable to see or perceive. Then just as suddenly, the color fades back in like an old T.V. set and I'm looking into Mulder's 'panic' face as he firmly grips my upper arms, holding me upright.

"Lauren…Lauren!" he says, and then continues under his breath, "Scully! Can you hear me?"

"Yes, I can hear you. What happened?" I ask.

"I don't know. I lost you for a second there. I think…I think you fainted."

"I did not."

"You did."

I shrug in response, dropping his gaze, and turn to look back across the bay.

"Let's go home," he says, wrapping his arm around me.

---

Early this morning I called in sick to the office without telling Mulder. He left at the normal time, one hour before I typically go, and gave me the ritual goodbye kiss on his way out the door. I played off the strange event of Friday night, and I'm fairly certain that his worries over it have been allayed. The excuse of the wine in combination with fatigue and stress of the previous week seemed pretty solid to me. But I'm finally admitting to myself that something isn't right, and I want to know what it is before sharing any concerns with Mulder.

The stuffy waiting room is so crowded that most people are standing clumped behind the chairs in the back, packed shoulder-to-shoulder. Screaming children, young drug addicts, and the malnourished elderly wait for hours in hopes of the smallest possibility of receiving help. I'm embarrassed to be here; I'd wanted to go to one of the major hospitals, but the truth is that without medical coverage, I can't. And I'm desperate. So here I am at the free health clinic in South Boston where most patients are either homeless or project residents. I don't even know why I bothered to come; if I have a serious medical problem, they won't be able to help me…but either way I have to know.

---

In the dead of night, during what people once called the witching hour, the most insignificant details come alive, magnified to gargantuan extremes. The drip of the kitchen faucet, a siren in the distance, sparse traffic on the street below, a TV blaring somewhere far off, Mulder's rhythmic breathing in and out…together they create a screaming symphony, and I'm not sure if it's painful or beautiful. Momentarily I remain perfectly still, admiring the innocent gentleness of his face as he dreams. But my thoughts can't be contained to the bed, and the need to pace soon overwhelms me. Before creeping into the living area, I silently retrieve two items from my drawer.

My fingers lovingly trace every crease, every curve of the photograph. I know it by heart. Closing my eyes, I touch the image to my cheek, striving to remember how he smelled, how his skin felt against mine, and how his laughter sounded as I swooped him up into my arms. I think I'm starting to forget, and that terrifies me…He gave me hope when I'd lost it completely. I wanted him, I loved him, I would've died for him. And I still would, if given the chance.

Mulder and I have this unspoken agreement that we don't talk about William, our son. We know that he is well-loved by his adoptive parents and living a much better life than we could ever give him. Remembering the loss, my decision to let him go…it's too painful to discuss, so we don't. It doesn't mean that I don't think about him—I do. All the time. And I'm sure Mulder does too.

In one hand, I hold his picture; and in the other, I clutch a simple piece of paper summarizing the results of a routine blood test. I stare at it dumb-founded, the initial shock still not totally sinking in. But there it is; what I had dismissed as impossible without second thought. I'm seven weeks along.

What every expert deemed unattainable the first time around somehow happened twice. My impulsive reaction, after the shock, was one of blissful elation. Images of rocking an infant to sleep, a tiny voice calling 'Mommy!', reading all the classic bedtime stories, and laughing while Mulder chases after a toddler flash through my mind. I never really saw him with William; the time they had together was so painfully brief. But to see him as a father now, to give us the chance to—

No, I can't. We can't. What am I thinking? I have to at least tell the truth when I'm talking to myself. A baby needs clothes, food, diapers, a place to sleep, someone to take care of it during the day while we work. There's just no way. Bringing a child into our hand-to-mouth existence would be selfish. We can't afford to give this baby all the things it deserves; a good home, a college education (assuming the world doesn't end, though that's a separate concern)... But I don't know if I'll have the strength to give it up to someone else, not again. Maybe I'm thinking too far into the future. Without a medical plan, how would I even get through a pregnancy? I'm older now and there are more risks; having a doctor will become a necessity. Then there lies the issue of work and obtaining enough vacation time for a maternity leave…

Choking back a sob, I know what I have to do. Tomorrow morning after Mulder leaves for work, I'll rummage through the shoebox in the closet that we call 'the bank'. Somehow I'll have to come up with at least three hundred dollars.


	5. Chapter 5

Funny, the looks you get on the street when you walk into this place. Maybe I'm paranoid that people will recognize me, so I'm seeing cold glares that aren't truly there. Or maybe I just feel like a criminal and I'm seeing what I think I deserve. I don't know. After I sign in and take a seat in one of the plastic chairs, my hands won't stop shaking and my teeth chatter even though it isn't cold. Squeezing my eyes tightly shut, I try despairingly to stop thinking, but I can't. I'm reminded of Mulder's words to me when we gave up our old lives: "We can't keep secrets, Scully. We've lost everything except each other, and that's the one thing we can't afford to lose." The tendency to withdraw myself, trusting only in my own strength, may prove to be my fatal flaw.

Since scheduling the appointment a few days ago, the guilt has gnawed incessantly. I have wanted to tell him so badly; I've needed to tell him. This is the most difficult choice I've ever made, and the thought of enduring it alone petrifies me. Last night I almost told him during our ritual walk from the bus stop, but I couldn't find the right words. If he knew, he would never agree with my decision and I know my decision is right. The situation must be that simple. But I have no idea how I'll face him tonight or how I'll explain the chunk of missing money. Working overtime, perhaps. I could do that…but how will I ever face myself again? Especially since I don't really want this?

"Lauren Hale?" the nurse calls into the small waiting area.

Numbly I find myself rising and following her to an exam room in the back. Smiling she hands me a patient gown and asks if I want a sedative to ease my nerves.

"No," I hear myself reply hollowly, taking the gown and shutting the door. The room is stark white except for a poster on one wall of a woman running in the mountains with the inscription "Commitment: Determination is often the first chapter in the book of excellence." Before pulling the sweater over my head, my eyes skittishly survey the rest of the room: sink, exam table, stirrups, box of sterile gloves. My heart pounds in my ears. There's a light knock on the door, but I can't find my voice to respond. The nurse bustles inside anyway.

"Oh, I'm sorry Ms. Hale. I thought you would be ready. I'll be back in a minute to start your I.V., and Dr. Carroll will be in soon to answer any last minute questions you may have concerning the procedure."

"Wait," I croak, my eyes flooding with tears.

"I know how difficult this is," she says sweetly, placing a hand on my shoulder, "Women make this choice every day, and they go on to have full recoveries, both physically and mentally."

"No, I mean…I can't. I can't do this."

Suddenly I'm pushing around her, out the door, back in the waiting room, outside in the cool afternoon sunshine. Wracked with sobs, I can hardly breathe or think. People gape at me awkwardly as I run past, probably thinking I'm completely insane as they bound out of my way. Finally I stop in front of a convenience store to catch my breath and shakily feed change into a payphone. I'm only supposed to call the number in an emergency, but I think this counts.

Five rings…Six rings… "Hello, thank you for calling Thompson Painting Company's mobile line. How can we help you today?" answers the voice, vacant and far away. I try to speak, but only manage to choke out an indiscernible "Um, I need…"

"We have projects scheduled through tomorrow afternoon. Are you looking for an interior or exterior job? Let me take your name and number, and perhaps we can put you down for the end of this week. Or I can just give you the office number—"

"I'm sorry," I sob, crying so forcefully I can hardly get the words out.

"Excuse me?" the voice asks hesitantly.

"I couldn't do it," I whisper.

"Who is this?" he says slowly.

"I didn't tell you—because—because I knew you wouldn't want me to do it but I didn't want to I just didn't think there was another choice and I was going to but I couldn't and I'm sorry, Mulder," the words fall out in a nonsensical stream between hiccups.

"Lauren, Lauren slow down. Tell me what's wrong," he says, obviously trying to keep his voice even.

"I didn't do it."

"Okay. What happened? Calm down and tell me."

"I was in the room—I was going to have an abortion, but I left."

There is a long silence. I can barely hear his breath on the other end of the line. We speak again at the same moment.

"Mulder, I—"

"Scu—Lauren, where are you now?"

"Outside the 7-11 on Columbus."

"Stay there. I'm coming."

The line dies, the phone swinging on its cord when it slips from my grasp. I collapse on the bus stop bench, trying to pull myself under control as I rest my head in my hands. I'm scared. What does he think? What will he say?

In a surprisingly short amount of time, I hear a car screeching to a halt in the fire lane. Glancing up, I see him leap out the driver's side of the company van in his uniform coveralls, splattered head to toe in various shades of blue paint. No telling how he managed to get here so quickly, much less finagle custody of the van. I quickly stand, waiting with dread to see the anger and shock in his face as he moves toward me. But I see neither.

"Mulder—"

"Shhh. William," he quietly corrects.

"I'm pregnant."

"I gathered that much…Why couldn't you just tell me?"

The sobs start shaking me again and he takes me in his arms, rocking our bodies gently back and forth. Paint smears all over my cheek and clothes, but I hardly notice.

"I wanted to do the right thing, but I'm not going to get rid of it. I can't…Do you want the baby?" I ask weakly, my voice muffled against his chest.

"What? Of course I want our baby, Scully," he says as he draws back and lifts my chin with his fingers, looking into my eyes. The depth of love I see there nearly causes me to break down again. "This is all just…I'm a little stunned here. You gotta give me another minute to recover from that phone call."

"How can we afford it?" I ask him.

His brows crease while he chews thoughtfully on his bottom lip. And then he smiles.

"You know what? It doesn't matter. We'll figure something out, and we'll make it work. This is too important. We'll just go with the flow, okay Scully?"

"So we're having a baby?" I ask softly.

"We're having a baby."

We both laugh giddily as he attempts to rub the paint off my face, fashioning a bigger mess in the process. Taking a step away, he holds me at arms length, his eyes scanning my body for a change, for something different than yesterday. We've been blessed with hope; and I know that somehow, despite everything against us, we'll be okay, my partner and me and this baby we made.

---

Six days ago, I turned forty. Well I suppose I _should _say that Dana Scully would've just passed her fortieth birthday if she was still alive; because before two years ago, Lauren Hale didn't even exist. Lately, after much pondering over the events of the last few years, I've become curious about where I'm buried. Such a bizarre, morbid thought, though it does make me wonder. Are Mulder and I together? Probably not; I'm sure my mother would've interred our remains in the respective family plots. Interred, but still alive… Sometimes I toy with the idea of contacting her, my mother, to reveal the truth and swear her to secrecy; but of course I wouldn't actually do that to her. She'd never believe it was really me anyway; I mean, who would?

After learning to let go of the past, accepting the things I can't change, I think I'm slowly becoming at ease with the newness of my life. A different sort of mindset is required to develop the ability to live day by day, realizing that planning is a lost luxury. To quote Mulder, we just make it work. Tomorrow remains a mystery, I can't know what will happen or what I'll have accomplished after five years, and I'm okay with that. Lists of goals and milestones are ancient history. Somehow it's taken me this long to figure out that what you _do_ isn't important; it's how you share it, how you look back and reflect—it's what you still have when you've lost everything. That bit of experience sounds so simple, but it requires a lifetime to fully comprehend, and in my case, two. And it's the best advice I'll ever give to my Anne. I can just see her now, rolling those blue eyes and saying "Mom, I know.", but of course, she won't. She'll have to figure it out for herself after living through her own moments when she feels truly alone and disjointed in this world. Mulder and I recently discussed how much to tell her when she grows old enough to understand; but honestly, I don't think it makes a difference if we ever tell her who we 'really are'. We're still her parents, and nothing will change.

We live in Arizona now, just outside of Phoenix near the Sierra Estrellas. Hopefully we'll stay for a couple of years; I confess, the warm, sunny climate is uplifting for the spirit, but who knows, we may need to leave next week. I've moved on to retail, selling jewelry in a little antique shop off the highway, snuggled against the foot of the mountains. A couple days ago while sitting on the store's front porch enjoying my morning tea break, an attractive man in his early thirties walked in with a pretty young woman on his arm. He strode right past me without a second glance. Part of me longed for him to pause in recognition, despite the fact that I knew to hide from him. A few minutes passed, and then they were gone, laughing as they strolled away, immersed in the bliss of their own world. Casually I asked my coworker behind the counter what they had wanted. "An engagement ring," she said. "They didn't see anything they liked. From California by the looks of them." For a moment I tried not to cry, but soon a gentle smile played across my lips. My baby brother, Charlie, looking happier than I'd ever seen him. I'll never know what brought him to my corner of Arizona that day, much less breezing through my little antique shop; but I know that he was content with his life, and that's enough. I guess no matter how far you run, the past has a way of staying with you despite the odds; and I'm forever grateful for it. That evening I came home and shared the chance circumstance with Mulder. I'll never forget his response as he balanced a squirming Anne on one hip while precariously making a batch of scrambled eggs with his free hand. "Maybe it was God's way of telling you to stop worrying about them, Scully." And I think maybe he's right.

I remember a woman, very young, who hid her fears and sorrows behind a mask of strength, who trusted that everything in this world fit a pattern, who prayed without believing that a god really listened, whose faith lay in what she could hold in her hand. I remember a woman who met a man both fascinating and infuriating, exotic and mundane. He taught her about flights of fantasy, about the unseen world beyond human comprehension, about a love she never believed could exist. Now she has all these things, and she's better for them. My name was Dana Scully, and the day I died, my life didn't end.

---

**Credits:**

"**Fuckin song sung blue" was taken from Persephone's monologue in the play _Polaroid Stories _by Naomi Iizuka.**

**And of course to sleep/to dream goes to our friend The Bard.**

**Thanks for reading!**

**And thank you all for the lovely comments! I greatly appreciate it.**


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